


The Lovers

by Keepcalmandbrewtea



Series: Love Endures [6]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Intimacy, Not Canon Compliant, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27631178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepcalmandbrewtea/pseuds/Keepcalmandbrewtea
Summary: Nothing but a healthy dose of intimacy.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Series: Love Endures [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010343
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	The Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a piece that no one was supposed to read. An experiment where I gave myself a few ground rules to follow and a few objectives to reach, while trying to stretch my wobbly "Writer's Legs" and, uh, one thing led to another and then, well, here it is.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to Aldebaran, Flora_Gray and Snows for reading, editing and support. And while you're at it, you should totally do yourselves a favour and check Aldebaran's and Flora's fics here on AO3 and Snow's art on Tumblr (@drreallyreallystrange).

They come home after a night at the Opera.

For once they chose to be spectators and not active participants. He’s in his usual black suit, black long coat, the only concession to gaiety is the dark cobalt blue cravat that matches the colour of her dress. He didn’t compliment her on her attire when they left for the theatre. There was no need. His scorching stare was enough to let her know that he appreciated the sinewy lines of her body, the half-bare shoulders, the long, narrow neck, and _her_ , far beyond acceptable decorum.

The house welcomes them with blessed silence and darkness, the red embers in the fireplace providing the only source of warmth. The lonely figure of Miss Fleck, comfortably ensconced in one of the black leather armchairs, greets them with a nod. Her job as guardian of their offspring ended for the night, she leaves without a word, locking the door behind.

Shedding her cloak on the couch, a quick glance in his direction to telegraph her intentions, she proceeds to leave the sitting room, when his right hand catches her at her elbow and slides down till he reaches her fingers and pulls her to him with the irresistible force of a magnet. Her arms twine around his neck, hands caressing and entangling in his hair, while his head leans on her left shoulder so that he can smell her skin in a long reverse slope up to her earlobe, his skin smooth on his maskless side. His cheek’s passage brings goosebumps to life on her skin, everywhere.

They sway in the middle of the room for a while, cheek to cheek, their hands travelling each other’s body refreshing the memory of well known shapes and contours, moving together to a piece of silent music beating to the rhythm of their hearts.

By common agreement, the dance ends and this time when she moves away she’s met with no resistance. She drags him to the bedroom like one would a child, but he’s far too amenable to not comply willingly.

The room is slightly cold. They left the curtains open and the moonlight is pouring in, alternating shafts of light and darkness, painting a bewitching atmosphere. It is the same contrast she finds in the eyes that are observing her, gauging her intentions and waiting for her directions.

She reads want there and hunger and need to possess. His body is a coil of tension ready to burst and his mind is exercising the highest degree of restraint. He always defers to her in matters of the heart and of the flesh, still uncertain of his ability to control himself and scared to unleash the darkness he is convinced he holds inside.

Her hands land on his shoulders and caress them, then follow a path down the lapels of his long coat and splay on his chest infiltrating underneath the garment. They climb the tortuous road back up to lift their intended target, his coat, off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Next is the tailcoat, which falls victim to the same murderous plot, until she extends the stroke from shoulders to wrists, smoothing the length of his shirt’s sleeves in search of the next objective. 

The buttons of the waistcoat are easy prey: they fall one after the other like Napoleon’s soldiers on the fields of Waterloo. And soon the cravat follows, released by blind hands: her eyes are trained on his and pull him in deeper and deeper until he does not care about whatever she will do next.

He dispatches the shirt by himself, raising it over his head - he doesn’t bother with buttons or cufflinks - this nuisance needs to be dealt with in the quickest way possible because his self-control is wearing thin and he can’t be held responsible for his reactions any longer.

He attacks her clothes like a starved man attacks a meal at a tavern - he’s become proficient enough in undressing her that he doesn’t need directions to perform this particular task. Nevertheless, despite the urgency, his touch is precise and his movements spare. The ever-growing pile of clothing on the floor soon reaches an alarming height and they both feel the need to move away from it, first to the side of the bed and then on top of it.

His hunger is tempered by a shyness she recognizes as self-doubt. No matter how many times they do this, there’s a lingering doubt of not being worthy enough, not being the right one for her. It has diminished over time, but it’s always there, lurking in the shadows. She is the one with the magic touch, the one that can dispel any qualm.

They lie looking at each other, enjoying these moments of mutual discovery, the calm before the storm when rational consciousness will be overwhelmed and washed away by passion and paroxysm of the senses.

She removes his mask and he removes his wig. The final barrier, the last surrender. Nothing to hide from here on. Nothing but the bare truth for two souls that destiny has entwined together.

She is very careful with him to the point of obsessiveness. Her touch is deliberate, soft and attentive but always, always measured. His body is so full of scars and welts that she hates the idea of causing even more damage. Her nails are manicured short and blunt for that purpose alone. A row of light bruises from clutching fingertips is perfectly acceptable as long as they fade within a day or two. She can’t stand the idea of hurting him - in body or spirit - ever again.

He lets her lead at first, lets her disclose her most hidden desires. He will turn each and every one of them to reality when the time comes, but he needs to be tethered first, like a ship that has finally reached a safe harbour before the oncoming storm.

He closes his eyes and breathes deep.

Once.

Twice.

He can still smell a hint of the rose water skin tonic she used in the morning after washing her face. Her hand on his chest continues its up-and-down movement while the other is driving him crazy with enticing caresses on his neck. He hears the way her legs shift one against the other on the bedsheets. He wants to taste her.

He shivers and leans towards her. 

The kiss is rapturous. A full-blown symphony that overwhelms all senses and sets everything in motion, like an avalanche in wintertime: hands stroking, grasping and searching, limbs tangling, holding and pressing until two bodies become one and there is no way to tell one apart from the other. The bed is a battlefield where both armies give and take until exhaustion sets in, and a truce is declared with admissions of love whispered lips against lips.

The mantel clock strikes the hour but neither one moves from the embrace they are locked in. Propriety would demand that they put on nightclothes, but they never were ones to follow the rules. He feels her shiver, a light trace of goosebumps visible on her back even under the moonlight. When he raises up to fetch the duvet, his hand traces her shoulder with the knowing touch of a sculptor feeling a marble statue to seek out imperfections.

He finds none.


End file.
